Look on my face, in present morning’s light,
and hear me say, “These psalms are not enough,”
with stormy air, with God occulting sight.
You’re right! Add to the canon, your rebuff!
I’ve set it on my forehead: “dust to dust.”
Saint Anthony of Padua, we cry!
Though I am not a man for “God” to trust.
I will not ask forgiveness, when I die.
“God” has no absolution for my sins,
for acts against my brother son of man.
My sister, “He” will end, and “She” begins.
No tyranny can live beyond its span.
Unspeakable, we say it ev’ry day.
I only thought, there’s one more thing to say.

Forgive them, God, they know not what they do,
though, neither, then, do you, and I am not
a better man to save them by a coup.
Start capital, and end it with a dot.
Just tell me once, exactly what’s the plan?
I have a pen and paper here, for scratch.
Write me a number: what’s the price of man?
Two candidates, one outcome–that’s the catch!
I might have read a chapter from your book.
(Skip to the end, the part I most deplore.)
It’s bloody, small, and petty–with a hook:
at every chance, call Babylon a whore.
My pettiness is, now you have your way.
What worries you? Why so little to say?

In retrospect, that painting on your wall
that strains against its frame, which does not fit,
stare at it long: why is it there at all?
What furtive, longing eye does it admit?
That book off on its own there on your shelf,
its loved and tattered cover bleeding red,
what does it say? (I read it once, myself.)
Would Holden leave a comrade there for dead?
All fashions come and go, like drawing breath,
and yet, despite, the photograph remains.
To burn the word cannot compel its death.
From ashes’ ashes, fire in our brains!
The poet loves you; grieve and take a swig.
To gag me, he must kill me: “Fuck the pig!”

I know you think it’s just a “pornogram,”

but this is me, the word you overlook.

My psalm does not descend from Abraham.

He’s not allowed to bully in my book.

He’s not allowed to violate my verse.

You think that we can stop him? We should try.

He says he’s gonna end the universe,

with flaming sulfur raining from the sky.

The old white men are gonna make it pour,

and tell my sister “swallow” when she spits,

and, when she bites it off, call her a “whore.”

Cut off a toe, and then the slipper fits.

It’s not my place to say, “Your rage is just.”

To feel Her love, why pander to “His” lust?

I have, in hand, a package to return.
I used it once or twice, but it’s still clean.
It’s big enough, but that’s not my concern.
Just try it, and you’ll find out what I mean…
See that? It’s got a kickback like a gun!
First time I felt it, nearly blew my head!
My girlfriend gasped! She thought it might be fun,
but then she used it–left me, said, “Drop dead!”
I’d say, “That’s her,” but others took offense.
It pops, and you can hear down the block!
It sprays, and then the mess is just immense!
For what it’s done me, trade you for a rock!
It doesn’t even fit inside the hole.
So, take it back. I offer up my soul.

These words are all the beauty I comprise.

These mumbles heard by no one spell my name.

Set them in glass to mirror your surprise

when fourteen lines exceed the picture frame.

If you would see my face, behold it here.

Look on its scars before you see it smile.

I mean no harm, no damage to your ear.

My trek is long, before we tread a mile.

If this is not the reason, turn away!

Ask, “Wherefore this?” or stuff it, Juliet.

“A pox on both your houses!” How passé!

This metered heart is beating sonnets, yet!

My organ throbs a vulgar, bloody flow.

Give penance to your God, and claim you know.

I do not know the cadence of your speech,

its timbre, or the things it has to say,

but, if you shout, perhaps the words will reach

above the din and past the earthly fray.

I think that I might hear you, out in space,

out far beyond the clouds, where breath is rare,

before we disappear, without a trace,

in telescopes turned opposite to stare.

I hear they plan to send a man to Mars.

I’ll race him there. I’m halfway to the moon.

Come meet me past the sun and ‘twixt the stars.

My trip is lightyears, but I’ll get there soon.

You say you are a child of the moon;

come out a little farther, and I’ll swoon.

I bend away from every ray of light,

and never will I catch one, once it’s passed.

There goes the past, and with it goes the sight.

I never saw a memory so fast.

Your image has a special gravity,

as does your sound and lightning in your head.

The light of woman draws depravity

as if an apple falling on her bed.

We know each other not, to be a verse.

I’ll tap a meter, if you make it rhyme.

Some of my sonnets border on perverse,

but, then, the others bore you half the time.

Your greeting is an early New Year gift.

The candy’s sweet, but moon distilled is swift.

I know I know not any either, or,

at second glance, I cannot know the first.

So come not past my end, neither before.

How can our hymns of praise sound unrehearsed?

I don’t know which ends up in outer space,

which gets me down, will ever fall on you.

The Heavens know a guiltless guilty face,

but what the Hell am I supposed to do?

I wrote a girl a sonnet once, for free,

and left her feeling poorer for the gift.

She never gave a poem back to me.

I read it once; I think she caught my drift.

It wasn’t for her, neither was it mine,

an end fulfilled, no purpose or design.

A thousand years, and still I’ll never learn
to face the poker table face detached.
Are you aware? The cards you burn to turn
have cosmic consequence, like threads attached.
The dice have weights. The coins will fall one way,
though not for lack of truly random chance.
Fortuna, give me half a chance to say,
“I have no grace, but to your tune I’ll dance.”
That’s why I have no balls for reindeer games,
no sack for toys, no patience for your gift.
Present it now, or kindly check your claims.
Cash in your hand, or fold and call a lift.
I don’t care if you’re God or Santa Claus,
so ante up, and give the Devil pause.